Childhood Stays With You
by SilverMoonPhantom
Summary: A collection of stories from Dean and Sam's childhood.
1. Beans and Rice did no harm

It's not like Dean really expected to enjoy cooking, when he started.

At first it was just something that he did, to make sure his little brother was okay. Sammy needed to be fed, watered, occasionally changed and eventually taken to school.

Sam started getting older, and Spaghetti-Os, toast and cereal were getting tedious. As Dad ran off to hunt a witch or skinwalker, it was up to Dean to keep his brother happy and healthy.

He navigated to a grocery store near the motel, a run-down looking place with a single cashier who looked at Dean like he would try to run out with something at any moment. Dean had been given a few dollars and was told to get them some canned soup for dinner. The look on Sam's face had been one of dissapointment, and Dean couldn't help but squirm at the feeling it gave him.

So here he was, stepping from one foot to the other in the isle of a grocery store, staring at the rows of cans. A good portion of his brain was saying 'Go on, just buy the soup and go back to the room, feed your kid brother, be a Good Boy.'

The other half was writhing like a snake whose tail had been stepped on, crying out 'Make sure Sammy's happy!'

Footsteps startled him out of his thoughts, and his hand dove for the switchblade in his pocket, hackles raised even before he was turned around.

Apparently the cashier had gotten tired of listening to him out of sight, and wanted to investigate.

Dean kept his hand in his pocket, metal biting into the flesh of his fingers, just in case. Too many truck stops and seedy neighborhoods had let him know that strangers were definitely not to be trusted.

The middle-aged woman stopped a few feet from him, putting her hands on her hips.

"You need help with something?" Her dark eyes were narrowed, thin lips bloodless as she frowned at him.

Dean glanced back at the soups, red lables and colorful pictures tempting. He clenched the knife hidden in his pocket a bit harder, eyebrows furrowing. He gritted his teeth, taking a quick, impatient breath through his nose and turning back to the woman.

"I don't know how to cook." He finally spit out.

The lady raised an eyebrow, the frown receding a fraction.

"I don't want to eat canned soup anymore."

He hunched his shoulders, watching her out of the corner of his eyes. Don't bring up Sammy. Protect him.

"Your mom doesn't cook?" One hand fell from the woman's waist, her weight shifting to look a bit more sympathetic, less intimidating. Dean scowled feircely at the question, refusing to answer it.

The woman gave a small hum, then turned on her heel, waving her hand in a gesture to follow.

Dean hesitated, looking back up at the cans, but following regardless of his reservations.

He found the woman crouched in front of a magazine stand, flipping through the waxy pages. It was clearly a girly magazine, something that old moms read. Dean bristled at the implication.

She beat him to the punch, however, and spoke.

"How much can you spend, honey?"

Dean wrinkled his nose, giving a hesitent "Five dollars."

She stood abruptly and Dean skipped back, watching her warily as she strode toward the register, jotted down something on the note pad and folded it up.

She placed the magazine back on the rack, and walked right on past him.

He was confused again, but followed. She hummed something under her breath, an old tune that sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it.

Dean noticed she was approaching the fresh produce section and balked. Fresh things cost more, he knew it. He looked back over at the canned goods isle, the paper money feeling like it was dragging him down, burning a hole in his pocket. Guilt stirred in his gut again. He heard a rustle of plastic and looked back over at the woman.

She was placing a large onion in a sheer bag. The bag was tied off with efficient sweeps of broad-knuckled hands, and held out in his direction.

Dean hesitently stepped forward, plucking it from her hands and nearly fumbling when she immediately dropped her hold on it and ran off to grab something else.

The woman bent down, plucking a small bag from the shelf, shuffling to the side and pulling down another one. She dumped those into his arms as well, and went on her merry way.

At this point, the young man was feeling quite bewildered at her attitude, He glanced down, easily identifying some speckled beans and brown rice in the bags.

She paused at the end of the isle, calling out to him. Another can was in her hand.

"You've got a pot at home, right hun? Salt and pepper? A bit of cayenne pepper maybe?"

Dean recalled the rare occasion when Dad actually cooked, the overwhelmingly spicy chili that was only broken out if one of them caught a cold. It had made his nose run from the spice of it. He nodded.

She bobbed her head back, beckoning with her hand.

He tentitively put the items up next to the cash register, looking dubious. She started talking while scanning the few items. Vegetable broth in a can? Weird.

"Now, I want you to go home and follow these directions exactly. Be extra careful with the stove, and make sure no plastic goes into the oven, got it?"

He swallowed, nodding. Dean glanced to what she was gesturing to, and found the folded piece of paper.

He looked at the cash register, eyes widening.

He met her pale blue eyes with disbelief, and she smiled.

"That'll be $4.46, and I hope you enjoy your food, hon."

He handed over the money, and with his change, he got the folded up piece of paper. He regarded it with some sort of undisguised curiosity, as if it held the answers to the universe within its yellow, crinkled sides.

Turning around, he examined the brightly colored magazine. There was a woman in heavy makeup and lacy clothing, grinning up at him. She was wearing oven mitts and was presenting an ornately decorated, extravagant-looking apple pie.

He shoved the cents into his jacket pocket, reaching up to grab the grocery bag.

"Be sure to follow the directions exactly. Be careful with hot pans!" The woman's voice called out at him as he pushed open the door. He waved backwards to her, stepping out into the sunlight.

Quite suddenly, the enormity of what he'd just done struck him.

He stopped, wide-eyed, standing in the parking lot. An elderly man passed his stock-still figure, huffing something about youth.

Dean looked down, staring at the white plastic in his hands, at the decidedly not-soup within.

He took a shaky breath, leaning forward into a skittish walk back to the Motel.

Thankfully, Dad wasn't home when he got there. Sammy looked at him curiously as he started pulling out pots and banging around the kitchen, but didn't comment.

Dean set the bag on the floor, opening up the yellow paper and staring at the directions.

He bit his lip, sinking down to the floor and leaning against the cabinet. He buried his head in his arms, curling his knees up to his chest.

This was so stupid, he should have just got the stinking soup.

He didn't know how to cook, and oatmeal didn't count as cooking, neither did cereal or heating up soup from a can.

This was hopeless and he was going to ruin their dinner, they'd go hungry because he was stupid with money and he was such a horrible brother.

He felt Sammy walk up next to him, plopping down on the floor and leaning over so those silly curls splayed over Dean's shoulder and neck.

"Whacha lookin' at?"

Dean scowled, crumpling the note in his fist a bit. Sam tilted his head to look at the paper, pursing his lips.

"It looks like a recipe."

Dean took a breath, slowly flattening the paper again. He rubbed one of the creases.

"Yeah. I guess this is dinner."

And damn it all if the trouble wasn't worth it, to see Sammy's eyes light up like that.

"You're going to cook?!" Even his voice was eager.

Dean gave him a tight smile.

"Yeah. I'm going to cook."

With that, he stood up again, feeling his brother's eyes heavy on his shoulders, and the tightness of his gut not quite lessening.

The metal pots were loud and heavy, and Dean almost spilled the beans and water at one point, but managed to make it into the oven. The onion definitely didn't make him cry. He just had stuff in his eye, damnit.

Between blurring eyes and a scrunched up face to avoid shedding any unmanly tears, his hand slipped, and he ended up with a bloody finger.

Sam rushed up behind him with a bandage and some tape, looked so delighted to watch and help, that even that painful setback didn't stop him.

Dean found a tiny jar of minced garlic in the back of their fridge, used up from the last time Dad had made his cure-all chili for Sam's bout of flu. He scraped the edges with a spoon and eventually with his finger, barely coming up short of what the recipe called for, but tentatively continuing anyway.

Just follow the directions, everything'll be fine. He continued to chant that in his head, praying that the woman wasn't senile.

The aroma of cooking garlic and onion filled the tiny room, and Sam was practically vibrating in his seat at the sight of Dean opening up a bag of rice and approximating what a 'cup' was, with his palms. The younger boy read through the list and procured the bottles of spices, lined them up nicely along the counter without prompting.

Dean shot him a small smile, ruffled his hair and followed the next handwritten step.

He was almost done when a large insect slapped against the kitchen window, startling him into stumbling. His hand slapped down on top of the pan, and left him with a tight line of a burn on the underside of his wrist.

His hiss of pain prompted Sam to come to his rescue, flailing for a moment before dragging the elder over to the sink and forcing his wrist under the spray. Dean yelped at the added pressure, but bit his lip and stuck with it. Burns needed to cool, he knew that.

Dean's eyes were mournful, the clock was ticking on that pot and he was stuck by the sink. The heavy feeling in his gut was growing again. He was so close!

Sammy left his side, glanced at the list and pulled over a chair to continue where he left off.

"Hey! No, Get down from there!"

Sam shot him an acidic stare as he tried to move away from the cool water, and just lowered the heat before jumping back down.

"Okay, now we've got 20 minutes." The kid had the nerve to shoot him a cheeky grin.

Dean sighed, pulling his hand out of the water and heading to the kitchen table, for some quick first-aid on his wrist. He winced at the sight of it, blisters already beginning to form. He let his younger brother carefully wrap the appendage with white gauze, thankful that medical supplies were one thing their Dad never skimped on.

The directions were easy after that, but they didn't have any lime. There was a bruised lemon in the fridge, though. They were similar, right?

Dean carefully held his cut finger away as he sliced into the citrus, awkwardly holding it with both hands to squeeze some juice over his creation.

It smelled awesome, but looked kinda weird. All lumpy and brown-colored.

He spooned some onto a plate, hoping that it tasted like it smelled.

Sam grabbed the plate right away, sitting down at the table and looking worshipfully at the plate. He took a bite and made a sound of exaggerated pleasure, pretending to swoon on the spot. Sammy grinned up at him, before digging in unrepentantly. Dean felt a warm feeling creep up his chest at the sight. He looked down to his cut up finger and burnt wrist, and grinned.

He grabbed his own plate-full and looked with surprise at the fair amount of food left over for Dad.

Dean double-checked that the oven and stove was off, covering up the pot of leftover food and sitting down with his younger brother.

Beans and rice really wasn't a bad start. Not bad at all.

Dean recalled the image of a heavily made-up woman, and the ornate pie. He felt a flash of determination and decided that one day, he'd bake an apple pie. It would be perfect, with flaky crust and melting apple, with brown sugar and special flour like a chef on the T.V.

He'd sit down and share it with his brother, this delicious thing that he'd made with his hands, that could keep Sammy happy and well-fed.

**And that was how Dean learned to love cooking.**

* * *

Hey, you can make Dean's first home-cooked meal, it's an actual recipe. -Set oven to 250 degrees first.  
-Put 1 pound of dry beans into large pot, pull out pieces and anything not bean-like (Dean used Pinto Beans)  
-cover beans with water until submerged by an inch.  
-Bring water to a boil on the stove  
-add 1 tablespoon of salt, Cover pot tightly  
-Place inside Oven for 90 minutes. (Write down the time it's due out) -peel and chop up onion  
-Heat oil in a pan, on medium-high  
-put 1 tablespoon minced garlic and all onion into pan  
-stir around for 4 minutes  
-add 1 cup rice and stir for 3 minutes  
-add 1 can veggie broth  
-turn the heat up, wait for it to start boiling, then turn the heat back down to 'low'  
-cover the pan and let cook for 20 minutes.  
-Check the beans right after you cover the pan, and add more water if the level has gone down -drain beans, add to rice after both are done cooking  
-add 1 teaspoon ground cumin, 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper, and squeeze some lime (or lemon) over it  
-Mix well, and serve!


	2. Walking on sunshine

The more John left his his kids at his house, the less Bobby appreciated the man.

The way Dean's eyes lit up as soon as the man was out the door, turning to Bobby with expectations of some wild adventure. A trip to the damn park shouldn't make a kid look like Christmas had come early.

They played catch, three-way sometimes, when Sam wasn't too busy burying his nose in some exotic board game that Bobby had fished out of the closet (making damn sure there wasn't any hoodoo attached to it.)

There was a stack of old comic books stacked under his own bed, Batman and Spiderman developing grease stains and faded pages from how often Dean had perused them. The kid was practically vibrating with excitement when he got him a few more issues for his birthday.

Bobby held back the urge to smack their father across the jaw when he watched the kid carefully put away the comics when John was due to pick them up, small hands picking up a gun and taking it apart to polish.

That's the kind of bullshit he expected to find his kids doing when he got home and it pissed Bobby off. The older man quietly encouraged Sam to keep reading, ruffling the sandy curls when he was immersed in an old book of folktales, his interest in the topic purely from curiosity and not necessity.

Sometimes the boys were left at his place for a week at a time, and it was time for a road trip.

This week?

Mall of America.

The boys needed new clothes, and Bobby's tax break had been generous this year. He loaded them into the back of a wood-paneled sedan and headed off into the great beyond.

The boys didn't need to know that the inside of the paneling had every type of anti-critter ward and sigil he could get his hands on, and the hollow space between interior and wheel-well was packed full of hex-bags and salt.  
He wasn't an idiot.

When they arrived, the parking lot was already halfway full. They walked into the sliding doors and Sam's eyes became bigger than dinner plates. Even Dean looked impressed with the size of it all.

The mill of people was a bit slower when he last came, but it was the middle of the week and not close to a holiday, so that was expected.

As always, both boys already knew enough from their father to go straight for the kid-sized work jackets and jeans, sturdy undershirts and work boots. Clothes shopping didn't take up much time at all.

Bobby had spotted Dean lingering behind a display, his hand out like he was touching something, his face a picture of awe. Their eyes met for a moment and Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, yanking his hand back like it had been burned, and hurrying off to look at a stand full of denim jackets.

Bobby took his time moseying over to see what the boy had been eyeing so reverently, and was honestly bamboozled when he discovered it was a display of fuzzy socks. Not only that, but the only color on the side that Dean had been eyeing was shades of pink.

He looked over to the boy, shoulders hunched up like he could sense the eyes on the back of his head.

Bobby shook his head, plucking up one of the most obnoxiously neon pairs of pink socks and discreetly tucking it into one of the folds of shirts in their cart.

If the boy showed interest outside of what his idiot father demanded he liked, Bobby was going to make damn sure to encourage that.

Besides, one pair of fuzzy socks wasn't the end of the damn world.

When they got to the checkout counter, the pink garments had tumbled out onto the false-wood tabletop and Dean froze. He practically stopped breathing, staring at the things, and seemed incredulous when Bobby nudged them away from the edge and allowed the young man to scan the tag and place it in one of their plastic bags.

The old hunter felt his heart practically break at the sight of Dean looking up at him with a mixture of fear and awe. He scratched at the side of his beard.

"You can wear them around the house if ya want."

Sam looked up from where he was fiddling with the slim chain that bolted the store's pen to its desk.

"Wear what?"

Bobby ruffled his hair, pulling him into a rough sideways hug.

"Don't worry about it, kid. Hey." He knelt down turning Sam's head back and forth playfully.

"Your mop looks like it could use some trimming. I'm sure we can find some people with a pair of hedge trimmers around here somewhere. What'd'you think?"

He turned to Dean, who looked marginally more relaxed, and accepted the jerky nod.

The salon he picked out had some good deals for the week, and he was a bit curious. Apparently with every haircut there was a free pedicure included (today only!) After a bit of inquiry, Bobby discovered that he could, in fact, send Sam in for a haircut and get his own feet worked on.

His feet had been aching lately, sharp twinges if he stepped wrong.

Sammy ran off and plopped himself in one of the chairs, and Bobby lowered himself into one of the leather seats by the store's windows. The masseuse offered to get him a drink and he refused, but looked pointedly at the elder of the two boys.

Even if it cost extra, he wanted the boy in on this.

Dean stepped back, green eyes wide when the woman turned toward him. She smiled at him, gesturing to the dark green, cushy seat.

"Would you like one as well, sir?" His hand cut through the air, banishing the idea and muttering a quick refusal but Booby just said "Get your ass in the chair, boy."

There was an awkward silence before Dean shuffled forward, turning around and tentatively lowering himself onto the leather. He could see Sam leaning back into a sink across the room, eyes shut happily as a black-haired woman scrubbed at his scalp.

"Please lean back, sir, relax." He glanced down at the lady kneeling at his feet and obeyed the request, feeling weirdly exposed. This was super girly, and he felt weird, and what the hell was Bobby thinking? (Although, it was nice to be addressed as 'sir' - not many people did that to a 12-year-old.)

The older man kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks and placed his feet into a bucket that the woman had procured. Warm, sudsy water was poured over them, and gloved hands went to work.

Dean shifted, picking at the edge of the hand rest and fighting the urge to bolt. If his dad caught him like this, he'd never hear the end of it.

He looked out through the glass windows, meeting the eyes of a little girl whose parents were loitering outside the store. She smiled and waved, and he managed to force a small smile, lifting his hand slightly.

His attention abruptly turned back to a second woman, as she started picking at his shoelaces.

"Ah, no, I've got it."

He leaned over, pulling off the work boots and socks, wincing at the smell of his sweaty feet. He didn't want to inflict those on anyone. They were nudged into a bucket, and warm water poured over them.

Dean sat up, ramrod straight as she grabbed his foot, fingertips digging into the arch and heel, rubbing and pushing at the flesh. He supposed it felt nice? A glance toward Bobby and the bearded man was laying back in his chair, eyes closed and body slumped.

He followed the man's example, lying back and staring at the ceiling. It was strange having someone touch him without keeping an eye on them.

The warm water sloshed around his ankles as she pressed her fingers into the arch of his foot, releasing a tension he didn't even know was there. He breathed out. Yeah, this was actually kinda nice.

Dean turned his head, watching Sam for a moment as he giggled and talked to the hairdresser who was fluffing up his mop with a dryer, comb and scissors laced between her fingers.

His feet were pulled out of the water, cold for a moment before a fluffy towel patted them down. He didn't even bother looking up at this point, and was faintly surprised to feel a cool paste rubbed into his soles.

The smell of citrus and menthol wafted up a moment later, following the click of a plastic cap. There was a grit to it, and a commercial about exfoliating cream popping into his head. The cheerful jingle had made him roll his eyes at the time.

He could hear Bobby practically groan his happiness at whatever his masseuse was doing.

Dean reached down and brushed his hand over the shopping bags, fighting a blush that was rising up along his neck.

He wondered how the fuzzy socks would feel on his feet after this.

He had a feeling it'd be completely awesome.


End file.
